The Chosen One
by Precious Pup
Summary: In honour of Enthusiastic Fish and her great work in torturing McGee here is my angst ridden attempt. Tim goes missing and the team despairs.Will they find him and if they do will he ever be the same? Tim based team fic
1. Chapter 1

The two men sat on thin metal chairs in the small bare room and looked up at the large expensive flat screen. 'Ok these are the candidates'

There was a click and three photos flashed up on the screen.

Two men and a woman.

'We have here three Federal Agents, each from a different agency, each from a different location across the country. All are obviously familiar with Federal Agency policies and procedures, one of the candidates being top of his class when graduating from FLETEC. All three have exceptional skills in different areas and are proceeding quickly up the career ladder in their chosen agency. All three are strong, healthy and young. All three meet the psychological and medical profile you requested. None are diabetics, have weak hearts or any serious family medical histories. They also don't smoke, do drugs, gamble, drink heavily or have any reliance on external substances. I believe you have read the detailed dossiers I have prepared for you on each of them?'

The man on the left glanced over to the man on his right and received a nod. The man on the left continued, accustomed in his line of work to receiving few responses.

'As requested they are all single, no ex wives or husbands floating around, no children to complicate your work and few to none family members.'

The man on the left paused, before turning to his companion 'So which one is going to be the Chosen One?' The man on the right smiled before pointing to the image on the left.

'That one'

'Really?' He couldn't help but show his surprise. He felt for sure it was going to be the woman, her test results and profiling showed her to be exceptional.

'Can I ask why?'

The man on the right knew he didn't really expect an answer but he was feeling in a good mood. He was going to have fun with this one he was sure of it.

"If he came to your door, in the middle of the night would you find him threatening? What if he was covered in someone else's blood, would you still consider letting him in to use your phone, to get help?'

The man on the left studied the screen again and smiled 'Well I think you might be right there. You're the expert. I was just surprised as he is the one with the most family, well one sister and both parents still alive anyway.'

The man on the right smiled tightly 'Some family ties can be benifical, when it comes to my line of work. They can prove to be very useful on occasion, when handled correctly.'

The man on the left smoothly slid his mind away from the implications and continued on. He was a professional.

'Ok now we have our Chosen One how wide is the window to get info on his movements, to co ordinate the snatch?'

'You have four weeks, and I want it all. Cell traces, apartment bugged, PDA downloads, emails, his trash, everything. I want to know what he had for lunch, who he spoke to, what he dreams about at night, who his friends are. I can use it all'

The man on the left nodded and pulled out a palm scanner, while the man on the right entered the code for the recently opened numbered Swiss Bank Account. 'Pleasure doing business with you. Hope to see you again'


	2. Chapter 2

NCIS Special Agent Timothy McGee drove into the underground garage of his apartment complex and pulled his precious car into his space. He turned off the engine and sat for a moment, feeling ridiculously happy. He had a full week off work which started….. Tim checked his watch ….. right now.

Tim took a deep cleansing breath and smiled. A full seven days without urgent phone calls, bloodied corpses and having wads of paper thrown at his head. No Gibbs glare, no teasing from Tony and people actually using his first name.

It had been so long since he had had any time off and he felt like a teenager released on endless spring break instead of looking forward to a five day long writers sabbatical.

And tonight? Tonight he would pack his bags ready for the drive out tomorrow. Even the loads of washing and ironing that would need to be done tonight so he had clean clothes to take away with him didn't dampen his spirits.

He would order in Chinese, put on some of his favorite records and collect up his writing pad, pens and his collection of random story lines that he considered worthy of further development ready to take with him.

Being able to sleep in beyond 6.00am, evening soaks in the hotel hot tub under a clear starry sky and the glories of Hotel breakfasts complete with crispy bacon, chef prepared omelet's made to order and freshly squeezed juice from a dozen different fruits. Life was good. Life was very good.

Tim got out of his car and turned to check that it had locked. You could never be too careful. Suddenly in his peripheral vision he saw a black gloved hand coming towards him but before he had time to react the glove and the chloroform soaked cloth it held was over his mouth and nose. He struggled briefly before succumbing to the swirling nauseating blackness.

A car silently pulled up behind the Porsche and the man holding the collapsed form of Timothy McGee dragged him towards it. The driver wearing ordinary khakis and a green polo shirt helped the other man dump Tim's body into the empty plastic lined trunk by lifting his feet and legs and then dropping them unceremoniously into the trunk of the car. Once in his hands and feet were tied securely and tape was placed firmly over his mouth.

With a nod at the black gloved man, the driver quietly closed the boot shut over the unconscious and bound man and hopped back into the drivers seat, calmly accelerating the car out of the garage and into quiet cool evening.

The remaining man rolled up the dark blue balaclava covering his face until he was wearing it as an ordinary woolen hat. Then he removed his black leather gloves and stuffed them into his pockets and unzipped his dark jacket to show the bright blue t-shirt he wore underneath. Pulling out an ipod he placed the ear buds into his ears and nonchalantly strolled up the driveway and out of the garage. He stopped at the top and paused to complete a few leg stretches before turning and jogging off in red shorts and battered sneakers in the opposite direction that the car had taken. His warm breath puffed out into the chilly evening air as he quietly dodged pedestrians, his steps in time to the music as he swiftly disappeared down the block.

The garage surveillance cameras were quietly altered and time corrected by a third party, booked in by the apartments Super to do a maintenance check when he noticed small missing sections to the security camera footage over the last few weeks.

The whole desperate event had taken place in under a minute and no one noticed. There was no shout, no scream, no struggle, not a single drop of blood was spilled.

Timothy McGee was simply gone. It would be a week later before anyone even thought to ask where he was.


	3. Chapter 3

Tim's vision swirled as he opened his eyes and tried to register where he was.

Bricks, puddles of water, empty space, rails, chains, metal grate.

He shut his eyes again, taking a deep shuddering breath hoping that what he had seen was simply an illusion, a bad dream. But even with his eyes shut he could feel the uncomfortable stretch of his body and the restraints around his wrists and ankles.

He was naked, stripped bare and hanging restrained in a spread eagle fashion. He was freezing. His pale soft skin was coated in goose pimples and he felt a deep shiver ripple through him. His stomach clenched convulsively and he felt himself nearly gag though his mouth was sandpaper dry. He controlled his response, taking in deep breaths again and again. After a minute that seemed like an hour he willed himself to open his eyes again.

Bare brick walls, puddles of water, big empty space, rails, chains, large metal grate in the floor, solid timber frame above and to the side of him, large white metal boxes scattered around the room, strong metal hooks.

It was a dream alright. It was a nightmare. What the hell had happened? He had been planning his trip away and the last thing he remembered was his…..

He had been standing by his car in the garage of his apartment complex and he had seen a hand. That was it. The last thing he remembered was a hand coming towards his face with a cloth in it. Chloroform? Someone had drugged him and brought him here. Why?

He was a Federal Agent and an NCIS investigator. Think! Breathe!

He was currently alone so he needed to find out as much as he could from his surroundings before whoever wanted him turned up. Logically, someone must want him for something so the more information he had the better. They would ask him questions which he wouldn't answer. He would ask them questions which they probably wouldn't answer and then they would…… ?

His mind was spinning, and he was fighting off rising panic and despair.

Stop. Stay calm. Assess. Evaluate. Breathe.

Was it still night time? It felt cold enough to be although he couldn't see a window or anything showing outside. A large industrial light high above him was on. He twisted his body and bucked trying to free himself. He could only move inches, he was strung so tight. His muscles ached already from the extended awkward position.

How long had he already been here? What time was it? What was this place?

It felt industrial and abandoned. There were no signs of recent activity. There were several doors scattered around the large room all shut and barred. What were the curved rails hanging down from the ceiling for? Was that a speaker high in the corner of the room? It looked new, somehow compared to the rest of the room. Had this place been chosen, selected for this purpose and adapted for their use? Whoever they were.

It was planned. That much was clear. It was no accident that he had been taken alone, unawares, away from NCIS. Why? What did they want from him?

He was a Federal agent but so were thousands of people. He was a hacker of some ability but his job as a field agent and investigator kept him off the front line of developments and there were many others who would be better, faster and take greater risks than he would. Would they have the security clearance and insider system knowledge he did though? And not just of NCIS but of all the other agencies I have accessed? Homeland security for a start. The stray thought chilled him further.

No back to certainties. What did he know for certain?

His bare feet rested on the cold rough concrete floor. His wrists had been padded and then manacled tight along with his ankles and he was connected by thick metal chains to a large timber A frame structure. Why would they pad under the manacles, and protect his wrists and ankles if they were going to torture him?

Torture. He was going to be tortured!

Gibbs! Gibbs would come for him. They would all come for him.

Once they discovered he was missing.

THEY WOULDN'T KNOW HE MIGHT BE MISSING FOR A WEEK!

Tim could feel himself loosing control of his breathing. He was sweating and his chest was rising and falling, taking in great gasps. His muscles strained as he tried to find a way to free himself. He stopped noticing the freezing cold as his body washed hot in shuddering waves of fear. His heart was hammering loudly in his chest from the rising panic and he was gasping and twisting, rattling his chains. What day was it? How long had he been out? Where was he? What did they want? Were they watching him? Who were they? Why wasn't there someone there? What did they want from him? He felt his control slipping as terror gripped him vice like around his chest.

"What do you want from me?" His voice screamed out and echoed across the empty building.

"Show yourselves! I am a Federal Agent and I demand that you release me!"

Nothing. Only his own voice echoing around the cold harsh space.

Jarrod smiled from his control room as he watched the fear take hold. Yes this was going to be interesting. In fact he believed this one was going to be his favorite. He had had many others under his gentle care over the years but this one was a field agent. Not an analyst who sat behind a desk all day, although Timothy had the mind for it. Not an intelligence expert who immersed themselves within a particular group to learn all they could about them. Timothy had the attention to detail for that too. Timothy was an investigator who week after week examined the worst that humans and their petty violence could do to each other. No Timothy had seen the bodies of the victims and he knew what could happen to him. Knew it intimately.

Timothy had smelt the viscera of bellies cut open, witnessed the stench of loosened bowels and desperate choking vomit. He could view mutilated corpses and their open staring eyes for what they could tell him about the perpetrator rather than just the victim. He had see bodies burned by fire and acid, cut into a thousand different pieces, stabbed, twisted from poison, suffocated, starved, exploded, strangled a thousand different ways, shot, beaten and tortured.

Oh no Timothy claimed the fear and he was right to do so. The others often tried to deny that there would be pain and deluded themselves. They thought they were being strong by swallowing the visions, closing their eyes and turning their minds from what was to come. That way when there was pain they were unprepared for it. Timothy's fear was his strength and it was writ large across his face, his eyes huge and staring. He knew what could be done to him and he fought it.

With his eyes wide open.

"Release me! Now! I demand it!"

"What do you want from me?"

"Whose there?"

"Please. Let me go!"

"Please?" Tim sobbed, his voice raw from hours of screaming. His muscles ached and he trembled from the cold and the terror. He was coated in fear sweat, chilling him further until he shuddered constantly. Why hadn't anyone come for him yet? Didn't they want him now? He was exhausted, hungry and thirsty his mind conjuring up ever more fantastical and diabolical futures.

No. Fight!

Fight to stay awake. To stay conscious. To breathe. To assess. To gather information. Everything was important. Concentrate!

*************************************************

Tony shaved carefully and then dressed with equal precision. Date night tonight and it was going to be good. He better hurry it was getting late. He found himself humming as he slapped on some cologne. Yup he was getting back on that horse. And it was a pretty blond horse at that.

Abby settled in for a quick nap in her coffin. There was a new club opening up tonight and she was planning on being there till the doors closed so she was getting a little shut eye while it was early. Now should she wear the red velvet peek a boo or the slashed leather tonight?

**************************************************

He heard them first before he saw them. Heavy booted feet marching across the metal checker plate on the floor in a desperate rhythm. They had come for him finally, after hours? Days? After his personal nightmares it almost seemed a relief. But then he realized they had only just started.

A mans voice came over a loud speaker, crackling and impersonal.

"Hurt him. But don't break his ribs, not yet. And don't touch his face."

They came for him then. All dressed in black, hooded so he could only see their eyes. Four of them, no five? They kept moving and he couldn't move enough to twist around and follow them. They circled him and then came at him, hitting, scratching, twisting, scraping his flesh, bruising again and again. Pulling his hair out in clumps, dozens of tiny slashing cuts, smearing the blood they drew over him, drawing pictures, taunting him. His screams of rage echoing with their laughter, bouncing off the hard brick walls. He thrashed in his restraints, defenseless against them. They would laugh and retreat only to return moments later to punch and hit him again.

And again.

His blood was hot against his chilled skin. He wasn't sure if he slept or if he passed out. They woke him with hard jets of freezing cold water and as he trembled and shuddered they started their torment again. He could feel his body swelling and bruising and pain seemed to be the only thing keeping him conscious. He screamed his terror at them through his choking tears but they ignored him and continued their games.

There would be other days when they would do far worse things to him, things that would tear at his soul but this first day was what would haunt him.

"What do you want from me?"

"Please."

"What do you want from me?"

Jarrod smiled as he watched his Chosen one, his favorite twist and scream in anguish below him. So pretty really. Few men could be considered beautiful while being driven mad but he really was. His pale skin was rosy flush from exertion, his fine hair slicked down to his scalp. He wanted to go down and join in the fun but really it was too early for that.

Still it wouldn't be long. Jarrod arched his fingers and watched joyfully as the electricity arced blue and bright between his fingers. His new toy. The slim cables ran down from intricately wired rubber fingerless gloves down each finger and connected to special fingertip pads that covered the top of each of his fingers like wicked evil thimbles. He had complete movement of his hands plus the added benefit of electricity. Quite useful really. He smiled as he considered running his hands down Timothy's naked soft flesh and felt the flex of his fingers as his tender body jerked and writhed under his caring touch.

Soon.


	4. Chapter 4

_A month later_

The Man lay face down in the painful darkness and felt the heavy, soft rain start to wash the blood, dirt and dried filth from his naked, battered body.

And he prayed to a God he didn't believe in for the sweet rain to wash away the dirt in his soul.

He hoped his death would be quick but he knew it wouldn't be. He was never that lucky. But still he embraced the pure cleansing rain gratefully as he lay beyond exhaustion, face down, bleeding and unmoving on the crumbled broken asphalt outside the abandoned dry cleaning factory that had once held him captive.

The white hot flames crackled and roared close behind him, growing ever higher as the building that had shown him the truth of his nightmares burned violently to the ground, fuelled by barrels of industrial solvents and the Man's fierce rage.

The flames of orange, red and blue swirled into a hellish inferno, billowing heat and destroying all evidence of the nightmarish acts that had been perpetrated there. Vast timber beams fell smoking to the ground, dragging metal chains and electrical wires with them as a section of the roof opened to the sky with a sickening crack.

History was being wiped clean through the violent act of combustion and strange malicious, dancing shadows lit up the surrounding broken walls like sneering hob goblins and twisted dwarves around a sacrificial bonfire.

The collapsing building seemed to shriek out its despair as it fought to stay standing, challenging the driving rain and the Man felt the pulse of heat on the bare and raw flesh on his back even as the rain cooled his thin, fever racked body. The building was defiant and fought to stay standing while he lay empty, silently hoping for his death.

Death was the only true freedom. Only there could he be free of the sounds of the screaming, of the terrible sight of his Master's eyes, of the smell of his own sweat and filth and of the touch of the Stranger's hands on him.

Would his death be through slow drowning or burning fire? The Man found he didn't care anymore. He didn't deserve to live so he simply lay there and let the blood flow out of his body, mingle with the rain and surround him in growing scarlet puddles. He knew from his distant past how many litres of blood were in his body and he knew how much time he had left as his heart rhythmically pumped what remained through his open wounds and slid down his naked body in rivers of blood.

Still he did not move to slow or stop the bleeding and simply lay, sprawled awkwardly across the ground from where he fell and watched the building violently burn. He deserved to pay the price for what he had done, for what he had become. It was the only truth that remained to him.

Rain ran down his once young face and into his eyes and mouth so his strange universe became increasingly blurry and oily tasting. The sharp smell of chemicals gave everything an acrid, bitter sulphuric smell while his eyes stung from the bite of the smoke. Rough gravel dug into his bruised flesh as he watched unblinking as debris exploded and hissed around him as the two elemental forces of fire and water fought against each other in the black night.

A symphony of wet percussion beat against his body, the strange glowing pulsing firelight showing the falling raindrops to be like strafing lines of steady machine gun fire as they fell in sweeping lines, advancing aggressively towards the fire. Small puddles grew quickly to gushing lakes as the gutters, blocked with trash and the forgotten refused to let the water to flow freely away.

Would the rain be able to cleanse him of his deeds? Would he be purified at the moment of his death so that finally he might rest in peace? A baptism by water to free his mind from the sound and sight of his torturous Master? Or would the flames crush him under heavy collapsing burning timbers until he was incinerated? Burned alive in a Hell of his own making? Would all that was left of him be crumbling carbon blowing away in the unforgiving wind? Mere ash to join the filth and dust on the streets of the surrounding slums? Part of the silent witness to unceasing human misery as crack whores and pimps plied their trade?

The Man could hear the Devil laughing at the edge of the parking lot as he watched his plight from under a distant flickering broken street lamp. And Tim knew what the devil's laugh sounded like. It sounded like the catch of a cigarette lighter just as it fell to the ground with a clatter, igniting with a whoosh a wet trail of potent chemicals. A bargain made and sealed in blood.

It was done. It came at the cost of his life and his soul but it was a price he had learned he could pay.

He was free to die alone in the pure rain and a better death he could not have selected. There had been many times he had thought his death would come differently but ultimately now that the end was here he was free from the shadow of his name.

He would die as he had been born. Naked, wet, covered in blood and uncertain as to what lay ahead.

He found strangely as his once warm life drained away into the cold rain he wanted just once to see the glimmer of his distant stars again. But that would require being able to roll over. He already had too many things he had never achieved in his life so he simply added not being able to roll over to his list. Even if he had the strength, will and desire the thought of the gravelly stones being pushed into the raw meat that was the remains of his back sapped his strength. He had faced too much pain already. He would simply lay here until bittersweet Fate finally allowed him to die.

Besides the violent opera of his death meant he would not see the innocent stars as the oily black chemical smoke billowing from the factory concealed the gleaming white lights even better than the roiling black storm clouds did.

Was it was poetic that during his confinement he had wished only for clean water and to be left alone and now he lay dying in the rain, a solitary figure spread eagled where he fell surrounded by empty space and broken unmanned barbed wire fences.

With a scream of agony more of the building collapsed sending showers of bright sparks into the night sky as the rain began to triumph and smother the flames, leaving vicious charred scars across what remained.

And still the rain fell heavily and he began to feel only the cold as he felt his body grow still. He was becoming empty. Pain was irrelevant. Merely a learned response of the brain to prevent further damage. He had learnt long ago to ignore it. He welcomed the numbness of his body as it joined with his complete absence of thought.

The Man slowly smiled gratefully and his tired, stinging eyes fluttered shut. Once he would have screamed out and called for help, once he would have tried to stand and stagger to the gate but now he was nothing.

He was simply The Chosen One.

And he chose to die.

***********************************************************************************************

The Man did not hear the wails of the sirens as the fire trucks screamed down the streets and the splashes of the heavily booted feet as they came towards him.

"Hey! Over here!"


	5. Chapter 5

Fornell strode down the hospital hallway, his heels angrily clicking on the hard laminate floors.

"Didn't see him? Didn't SEE him! There was no way that he got that close and didn't see anything. The guy held a gun to his face. Somebody got to him. Dammit. The whole case will collapse if we can't get his testimony. Sacks! Did you get those photos? I need to.."

Fornell screeched to a halt as the familiar eyes of the patient at the far end of the hall finally registered.

"Holy shit"

He turned quickly and slammed straight into Sacks who had just jogged up behind him.

"What the hell are you doing?" Fornell growled down in frustration at his confused junior agent who was scrambling off the floor before he disappeared back up the hallway.

Sacks sighed and started to follow the senior agent as he muttered under his breath. Fornell seemed to get more crotchety every year.

Fornell stood in the open doorway and stared at the man lying face down in the hospital bed. He was skinny, burned, bandaged, and surrounded by untold machines but those distinctive large green eyes gazing blankly out of the familiar face told Fornell all he needed to know.

"Is that…..?" Sacks couldn't even bring himself to say his name, the shock was too great. Every agency in the country knew that Gibbs's team was missing a man but to simply stumble across him in the hospital while working another case?

"Get me a nurse" Fornell's voice was urgent and angry as he took in the devastation that lay unmoving before him. Sacks disappeared and Fornell stepped further into the room and picked up the hospital chart from the end of the bed.

"Patient – John Doe. John Doe my ass."

Fornell snapped his fingers in front of Timothy McGee's face and watched as his eyes slowly blinked but did not register any other change.

"What did they do to you kid?" His voice was soft as he looked for an undamaged spot to lay a comforting hand and paused awkwardly as he realised he could not find one.

Sack bustled a nurse into the room and Fornell pointed with authority at the prone figure in the bed.

"Tell me about him."

"He was brought in last week. Terrible shape. The sole survivor of a warehouse fire. You might have seen it? It was on the news, nearly spread to the whole neighbourhood.

He was brought in naked, no identification, no jewellery or wedding ring although he does have what could have been a tattoo on his buttock. He has had multiple surgeries, mostly to try and repair the extensive nerve and skin damage to his back. He has been pretty unresponsive, although to be honest he has spent a lot of that time under heavy sedation.

We tried to find out who he was but his hands were too burned and blistered for fingerprints. To be honest we have been concentrating more on keeping him alive than finding out who he was. He lost a great deal of blood and he is still very weak. He has been battling a fever as well which hasn't helped"

The nurse paused and took in the two Federal Agents tense demeanour before she asked cautiously.

"Is he a criminal?"

Fornell slapped the medical chart into her hand.

"No he is NOT a criminal. Change the name on that. His name is Special Agent Timothy McGee. If you want confirmation check the Naval Records not the criminal ones. "

Fornell pulled out his phone before he looked across at Sacks.

"Stay here and keep an eye on him. I'm going to call Gibbs"

Sacks nodded as his eyes strayed in a sort of fascinated horror to the young man he had come to know as a member of Gibbs's team and who now lay on his stomach staring at the hospital wall. McGee had been younger than him, DiNozzo's perpetual Probie but now his recognisable eyes were fever bright and blank in a way that made them painful to look at.

Chill needles of dread swept up his spine and made his scalp tingle and he found himself turning away from the slow harsh steady breathing and looking out the window, swallowing convulsively as he fought off visions of what had been done to the bright, young agent to reduce him to such a damaged state.

A warehouse fire? Did they torture him and then leave him to slowly burn to death inside? The sounds of the destruction covering up his screams as his flesh was...

A tree. There was a tree in the distance. Study the tree. Don't think about it.

F.B.I Agent Sacks stood in the room, the silence broken only by the sounds of two men breathing and fought off the growing desire to run from the room. For some reason he didn't like to turn his back on the figure in the bed. He flicked a look across at the still unresponsive man. What was wrong with him? It wasn't like McGee was suddenly going to rise out of the bed and attack him.

But that's what it felt like.

Sacks took a single step away from the bed and refused himself anymore. He shouldn't allow himself to succumb to any irrational fears. He was a Federal Agent and shouldn't be afraid of an injured man, a fellow agent.

Besides Fornell would be back soon.

Fornell stood in the empty hallway and opened his phone. He found himself simply looking at the screen for a moment trying to frame his thoughts. He didn't actually know given the condition McGee was in if this was a good call or a bad call.

"Gibbs"

********************************************************************************************************

Tony glanced across to McGee's empty desk for the thousandth time that day and sighed before returning to the report in front of him. Nothing had changed. Tim wasn't there typing away or giving him one of his patented looks because he had thrown another wad of paper at his head.

When they had first discovered he had gone missing, the hole in the bullpen had been so obvious, the absence of Tim had felt like a physical object occupying the room with them. An empty void that occupied the same shape and size as the young agent yet seemed to demand constant attention in a way the man himself never had.

But in the beginning they had hope which Tony carried with him like an optimistic bright and shining sword to fend off the all consuming nothingness that sat like a growing blight in the corner of the bullpen. They were the best team, the best investigators and this wasn't some stranger. This was Timothy McGee. The pace had been furious and they had worked through the long days and nights searching for some clue, some reason why or to where McGee had been taken.

As the weeks had worn on, the trail grew colder and Tim had stubbornly refused to be found, the presence behind his desk had slowly changed, turning malignant. Now instead of a static solid absent space that Tim should have occupied, the area had turned into a spreading black hole, sucking in and feeding on all hope and joy. The negative space had even started to turn vicious and Tony swore he could hear the low level continual hiss as it sucked away their energy and ideas leaving them all exhausted and anxious.

All powerful, vastly misunderstood Dark Matter had taken up residence at McGee's desk and in Tony's exhausted over active imagination it was going to slowly consume them all. What sleep he got was often disturbed by nightmares of relentless, unfeeling spreading Nothingness slowly, slowly absorbing the floor, filing cabinets, his desk, his chair, his legs until he woke with a start, panting and dripping in sweat. The Nothingness was slow but he could never seem to escape its continual advance.

Tony blinked his itchy eyes again rapidly and tried to concentrate again on writing up the most recent dead end. He was growing accustomed to blocking out the sounds of Tim's absence, the silence of the keyboard, the nonexistent Umm's and that in itself concerned him. It had been too long already. Nothing could be said to anyone without feeling McGee's absence and the tired eyes that met Tony's own told him he wasn't the only one struggling without his 'Probie'

It shamed Tony that as his friend was potentially struggling for freedom he was pouring on the charm and trying to find out some college girl's star sign.

A week. McGee had been missing a week before anyone even knew he was missing. It made their job that much harder. Who remembered some insignificant detail from the previous day let alone the previous week?

Tony had been riding McGee hard the week before he left for his writers retreat and Tony had practically heard the sigh of relief as Tim headed for the elevators that night. Tony had promised himself he would give his friend some peace and so he hadn't called the entire time. He had even talked himself out of prank calling him at 2.00am one particular night after a busy case. How many times had he regretted that action over the last few weeks? Why did he choose THAT time above all others to try and be sensible?

Perhaps if he had called and not received an answer he might have started to worry and insist on a follow up call to apologise? Perhaps those extra few days might have been what they needed to find something that would lead them to him? Perhaps...

Tony shook his head. No. No more perhaps. He couldn't afford the sleepless nights. He needed to be at the top of his game.

It seemed obvious that whoever took McGee was aware of the timing of his break away from the team. It was too perfect to be a coincidence. But why McGee? Why was he of all people targeted? From what they could tell McGee had never even made it into his apartment. His Porsche was found in the garage, his apartment untouched.

Round and round they went without a single decent lead. All they had was that whoever it was appeared to be professional. This was no poorly planned, coincidental mugging.

Tony flicked his eyes around the tense and silent bullpen taking in the other remaining members of his team. Ziva knew better than anyone the reality of what could have happened to McGee and the effort of suppressing the horror in order to allow the team to function as it should was wearing on her. Gibbs was driven and angry, Vance was curt, Abby was distraught and even Ducky's stories had faded into awkward nothingness.

*********************************************************************

Gibbs wondered if he should order Tony home for some sleep as he watched his Senior Agent almost twitch away from looking yet again at McGee's desk. Then again the dark smudges under his eyes seemed to indicate that he wasn't getting very good sleep anyway. He heard his phone ring and he impatiently snapped it open, pulling his eyes away from Tony.

"Gibbs"

Fornell was brisk and to the point.

"I found McGee. He's in Providence hospital. They had him as a John Doe. He's been badly hurt but he's alive"

Gibbs sat down suddenly as his legs suddenly threatened to give way underneath him.

All this time, every day reducing the chances that he would be found alive. Every day reducing even the chances that they would find his body.

Fornell's voice continued but Gibbs barely heard.

McGee was alive.

It was impossible. It was too easy. Fornell of all people had simply stumbled on him? McGee was free? Already in the hospital?

Where was the fight? The crackling commands? The splinter of doors caving in? The tear of Velcro as they secured their Kevlar vests?

Of all the calls he had expected to get, this was not one of them.

Suddenly an irrepressible grin split his face and he looked around at what remained of his family. His exhausted team.

"We're going to Providence hospital"

"What for Boss?" Tony looked up tired and pale and Gibbs grinned wider

"To see McGee"

**************************************************************************************************

The Man blinked again through the fuzziness and pain and waited for the instructions he knew must come.


	6. Chapter 6

The team burst through the hospital doors nearly tripping over themselves in their eagerness to get to see their missing friend. The pace picked up until they were all nearly jogging down the corridor, frantically pointing, reading out signs, heads turning searching for information. Random words were called out "Emergency", "Nurses Station" "Third Floor"

They made a strange sight as Gibbs, Tony, Ziva, Abby and even Ducky swarmed through the corridors until they saw Fornell patiently waiting for them, a shuttered look in his eyes. Gibbs' long even stride chewed through the remaining distance while Abby's platform boots clattered unevenly between Tony and Ziva while Ducky's shorter quicker stride took up the rear.

Fornell held up his hands as they descended onto him like an oncoming wave and simply pointed them into the nearest room.

"He's in there"

Like migrating swallows they turned in one motion and filed through the door in automatic ranking order.

Silence descended on the group as they looked at the damaged figure laying prone in the bed. Sack's stood to his feet and attempted to say something to break the shocked silence but the words died on his lips.

Ziva made an angry hiss and her eyes flashed as she clenched her hands into tight fists, controlling her desire to lash out at the nonexistent culprits. Tony took one step forward to peer closer at the blank face of the man in front of him, his face uncertain, doubting, his mind trying to frantically deny that this man was Timothy McGee.

"Probie?" Tony's quiet voice was horror stricken with the truth.

"Is he alright?" Abby breathed quietly, her eyes huge, her hand almost covering her mouth.

"He's alive Abby and that's more than we had this morning." Gibbs' voice was harsh but at the same time there was a strange comfort in the truth.

Abby blinked rapidly and nodded. When she had heard that sweet Timmy was alive and already safe in the hospital she had imagined him sitting up in bed, his face possibly bruised and battered but he would be eager to see her. He would have smiled at her with his expressive eyes. She would have held him tight and stroked the back of his head, soothing him. He would have told her how glad he was to be with them. To be free.

But this silent, unresponsive almost unrecognizable figure breathing steady and slow, face down on the bed wasn't what she had imagined.

The team stood in a silent tableau, uncertain what their next move should be.

"Oh Timothy my dear boy…" Ducky's voice trailed off in soft sorrow and the moment was broken.

Gibbs stepped forward and softly knelt down beside the bed so his face was level with Tim's.

"Tim? McGee? It's good to have you home."

Gibbs looked deeply into the still familiar eyes and thought he saw a slight stirring of recognition. He softly put his hand on Tim's head and stroked his hair, as he would a child, establishing gentle physical contact as he continued to talk softly.

"When you're ready to come back and talk to us we will be here. If you want to rest for a bit longer that's ok too. We will be here when you wake up. You just need to know that it's safe here."

Gibbs ignored the fact that Tim seemed almost comatose and instead spoke as if he was simply resting.

"Tony, Ziva, Abby, Ducky. We're all here for you. We've had a hell of a time trying to find you."

*********************************************************

Tim blinked slowly and allowed the familiar sensations of humanity to settle over him again. He finally had his instructions as he knew he would. He was to be Timothy McGee. He searched through his memories looking for the perfect response for the man in front of him. This assignment would be easy. He had plenty of information on Timothy McGee.

He might not even have to kill anyone this time.

****************************************************

Tim blinked one more time and then his eyes slowly moved across from the blank wall and focused on Gibbs for the first time.

"Boss?"

Tim's voice was soft and rough from lack of use and residual smoke damage. Gibbs resisted the urge to leap up in the air and instead he settled for grinning widely back at his agent and resting his hand warmly on his head.

"Welcome back McGee"


	7. Chapter 7

"_So Timothy what colour is this ball?"_

Tim lifted his sagging head and peered at the soft round red foam ball Jarrod held in his hand. Sweat tickled down his bare flesh as he hung suspended from the hated frame. He licked his dry and cracked lips trying to somehow produce enough saliva to speak. Not answering was not an option.

"Red?"

Jarrod gave him a pitying look and tossed the ball up then caught it again, one handed.

"No. I'm sorry. It's blue."

Tim threw back his head and screamed at the flash of red pain that scorched his back.

"It really is quite incredible, his progress. It's like he has decided that he must get better. He's gone from being almost comatose to sitting up, eating what we are telling him to, taking his medication, answering questions. He's a completely different patient."

Gibbs gave a tight smile in acknowledgement as McGee's doctor stood beside him while they watched their patient and team mate through the glass. Something was terribly wrong and yet Gibbs didn't know what it was. Tim had been found, he was alive and he was getting the help he needed.

But it was more than just his famous gut sending out alarm bells. The sensation was so strong it was sending the hairs on the back of Gibbs's neck prickling and he hadn't lived this long by ignoring his own visceral reaction to unseen stimuli. It was a sense of something, like someone creeping up on you in the dark. You couldn't see them, hear them or smell them but somehow you knew they were there. Gibbs had tried to relax and let his senses gently extend out as he had in those quiet still moments when he positioned himself as a sniper ready to take the single fatal shot. Preparing himself, centering his thoughts, assessing all possible dangers.

And yet there had been nothing there. Nothing but Tim looking up at him with hesitant eyes. So once again Gibbs found himself at the hospital late at night watching over his charge.

Waiting.

_"So Timothy, what colour is this ball?"_

Tim nearly wept in frustration. He didn't understand this game. He didn't know what the lunatic wanted.

"Blue?"

Jarrod smiled and tossed the red foam ball up and caught it in his hand.

"But the ball is obviously red Timothy. You are a terrible liar and for that you must be punished."

"Noooo! "

Tim's denial was cut off and turned into a desperate wail of pain.

"I must say Agent Gibbs I am very impressed with Tim here. If NCIS is full of agents like him I will defiantly spread the word that they are not to be messed with. He has an extremely high threshold for pain. I have to keep re evaluating my program because he is progressing so fast."

Gibbs just continued to watch through the glass and filed that piece of information away for later consideration for when he was down alone in his basement with his silence and his bourbon.

McGee had a high threshold for pain? Since when?

Gibbs remembered when Tony who had been rushing, slammed the trucks heavy rear doors closed on McGee's foot and how McGee had squealed like a stuck pig. For hours.

The physical therapist continued blithely on oblivious to Gibbs's silence.

"I mean don't get me wrong, his therapy is still obviously very painful but we must ensure that as he heals he is able to maintain his mobility and flexibility to try and limit the impact of the extensive scarring he will be left with. The small burns are almost entirely healed and it's now the lash marks to his back that require the most work. The damage was so much deeper, cutting right into the muscle."

Gibbs's jaw twitched as he shoved the image of McGee writhing helpless beneath a lash to the back of his mind. Was that what was causing his deep unrelenting uneasiness? The fact that they hadn't caught the Son of a Bitch who had done this yet? That he was still out there somewhere, planning god knows what in his twisted little mind. And Gibbs had no doubt he was twisted. They had no strong leads, little information and no motive. McGee was their only lead, what information they could pry out of his bewildered memories so far providing little progress.

Gibbs continued his silent sentry as he watched the young man who had been taken from him doze restlessly, his fingers twitching violently against the bedsheets.

_"I don't understand what you want from me?" Tim sobbed hopelessly, long past caring what this man thought of him._

Jarrod smiled consolingly "I know you don't Timothy. You like your world to be nice and ordered and logical and I'm afraid I just don't follow any of your patterns.  
How about we have a little discussion shall we? What exactly is the colour blue?"

Tim wept further as he hung exhausted while Jarrod continued his lesson, calmly walking around him in a slow circle. Was this some sort of theology lecture now?

Jarrod's voice continued, captivating and elegant as it rang against the bare concrete walls.

"You would try and tell me that it is an absolute but it is not. It is merely a concept to aid in communicating between one person and another. It has nothing to do with the spectrum of light and how the eye registers stimuli to the brain. It is an idea. A creation. One persons shade of sky blue can vary from another's understanding of the same colour. Are you listening Timothy?"

Tim screamed out the yes just before the lash touched his back again and he panted heavily, his eyes following the hated figure around in front of him. Whatever he did he must stay conscious during these lessons. He couldn't go another day without water.

"Good. Because this is important. Colour is simply a concept. Nothing more. An idea. It is simply because you believe it that you claim to understand it. Now what colour is the ball?"

Tim stared at the small innocuous looking foam ball as his thoughts churned desperately for the answer which would result in feeling no pain. Colour was a concept not an absolute?

"Blue"

Jarrod grinned and flashed his teeth. "Are you sure about that Timothy?"

Tim hesitated for a moment before he nodded more firmly. Hell the stupid ball was looking more and more blue every time he looked at it.

"Do you believe the ball to be blue?"

Tim nodded again and then he flinched as Jarrod rushed to his side.

"Oh my clever one. You see, I knew you would come to understand? Here have some water. How cruel of me to lecture you so. I love to teach you see and sometimes I do forget about the needs of my poor students."

Tim gasped as he felt his bonds slacken and he found himself collapsed in a heap on the ground as his limbs trembled from the abuse of being extended so long. A strong guiding hand helped him sit up and a large glass of water was held to his chapped lips. Tim scrabbled for it and choked as too much cool liquid flooded his mouth.

"Slowly now Timothy...wouldn't want to make you ill now would we. You are too special to me for that." 

The annoying woman nodded vigorously, pleased with her star pupil as she gave Gibbs her report.

"It really is remarkable how well Agent McGee is responding to his therapy. Many people who have suffered through captivity and torture find it difficult to trust others. It can take some time to get them to open up and speak about what happened to them. But Agent McGee has been rather driven about his sessions. He says that he wants to try and remember all the details so that he can pass them on to you for the case. It will still take some time but he is gradually remembering more and more about his time in captivity. It is not uncommon for people to suppress the memories of traumatic events.

Agent McGee has been very clear about his goal of returning to your team Agent Gibbs. I believe that is why he is pushing so hard. I am considering recommending him to return for a few hours a day to start with some simple desk duties. He wishes only for his life to return to normal as quickly as possible. Part of that is returning to a normal routine away from the hospital. Get dressed, go to work, interact with others, that sort of thing."

Gibbs nodded as the woman continued to gush. Yes it all seemed right. He hated hospitals and therapists too and if he was in McGee's situation he would want everything to return to normal as quickly as possible too.

But still something wasn't right and he just didn't know what.

He should be happy McGee seemed to be healing and recovering quickly.

_"What colour is the ball Timothy?"_

"What colour do you want it to be?" Tim sat upright on the stool, draped in impulse sensors. It was nice to be able to sit down.

"Let's go for green today shall we?"

Tim stared at the soft round red foam ball in Jarrod's hand until he felt ready. Until he believed that the ball was green.

"It's green"

Jarrod watched the needle on the scrolling paper continue to oscillate consistently and then he turned to his best student and smiled.

"Very good Timothy. Perhaps now we will move onto something a bit harder. Would you like that?"

Tim paused for a moment and then nodded slowly. Learning was better than being punished. And he had always like learning new things.

Gibbs stepped into the room and crouching down he put his hand on McGee's knee.

"Are you ok?"

Tim looked straight into Gibbs's eyes and gave him a sad smile.

"I'm fine Gibbs."


	8. Chapter 8

(Please be warned that this chapter mentions cannabilism and dreadful deeds and the references made about Alexander Pearce are true so you have been warned. Skip half of this long chapter if you like and start at the middle)

"What have you got for me Duck?"

Gibbs strode into autopsy where his friend was currently brandishing heavy, large metal shears to cut through the latest victims ribs allowing him free access to the chest cavity. The doctor looked up through the plastic shield covering his face with surprise.

"Ah Jethro. Most interesting. It appears that the blood on this poor souls lip is in fact human. And it's not his. As is the dried blood under his nails. I took the opportunity to floss his teeth and I have sent the samples to Abby along with the contents of his stomach. More I won't be able to say until I have finished but have you considered that Private Lennard might be the victim of cannibalism?"

"Wait, are you saying that this man might have eaten his men?"

Ducky looked up with a curious look at Gibbs's obvious revulsion and surprise.

"Come now Jethro. You and I have both unfortunately witnessed too many horrendous acts to allow ourselves the luxury of not considering that one. Besides cannibalism has been around in various societies for thousand of years. To absorb the strength of another through consuming the vital essence. It has been part of religious rites, political systems and even warfare. "

Gibbs still found himself rather shocked at this possible turn of events in an already extraordinary case.

Ducky brought the strong shears together with a snap as he began to cut through the ribs and open up the chest cavity of the man exposed before him.

***Snap**

The sharp sound echoed around the cold hard walls of the brightly lit room followed by the sound of Ducky's cultured, slightly accented voice. It held that mildly curious tone to it, as if he was on the verge of a particularly interesting puzzle.

"What I consider most interesting is whether it was conducted under a belief system or given the condition of the body when found, through extenuous circumstances. Eating human flesh that is."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow at his old friend.

"Extenuous circumstances Duck? What would induce a man to eat another?"

***Snap**

Ducky looked up at Gibbs and shook his head before returning to his task.

"Never judge what hunger can do to a man. In fact reminds me of the story of the Irish Convict Alexander Pearce. 1822. Quite the scandal of the age and a rather horrific example of the discipline of the British Colonies. He was part of a group of eight convicts who escaped from Sarah Island, a pitiless, brutal and isolated prison island off the coast of Van Diemen's Land, which was then a simple penal colony. What is now called Tasmania, in Australia."

***Snap**

"Sarah Island was a place of such darkness and despair it was where the British Empire sent its refuse to be punished and forgotten about by pleasant society.

These desperate men set off with a single axe and the small amount of bread they were able to steal, was unfortunately laced with Ergot which meant it rotted quickly and produced hallucinogenic effects. Two men gave up and were captured and later died of their injuries.

They all suffered from heat, starvation, exhaustion, thirst and madness. Apparently Alexander had considered suicide to end the nightmare but being Catholic it was considered a mortal sin. In his later confession he said he wished he chosen that path. Slogging through filth and mud, lost and starving they became increasingly desperate as they tried to cross over mountain passes."

***Snap**

"Three months after the escape Alexander had done what no other white man had done and crossed hostile unchartered territory to return to the colony. He was the only man of the original eight to survive. When he was eventually caught he confessed that they had fallen on their own until he was the only one to remain."

Gibbs was struggling to follow Ducky's story but the last bit jumped out at him.

"You mean they killed and ate each other one by one?"

Ducky paused in his work and looked contemplative as he continued with his story.

"Yes. It is quiet chilling to read his confession. It is still in the New South Wales Archive. Alexander, while he ate and helped butcher the corpses never actually killed any of the men. Except for the last man, the leader of their doomed band. Robert Greenhill was the one that 'persuaded' the stronger men to prey on the weak. And after the first man's death, to dissent meant that you were isolated and the next to be bled out like cattle. Four days after the last of their former companion was finished these two men were still stumbling around in endless hostile nothingness, with no understanding of the native surrounds."

***Snap**

Gibbs almost jumped at the loud sound of the human rib being separated from its body but Ducky continued on.

"Can you imagine watching the man across from you, tired, weak and near exhaustion, shaking with hunger and knowing that if you fall asleep that he will kill you and eat you as you have eaten the others before you?"

Ducky shook his head, unsettled at the image.

***Snap**

"Alexander finally stabbed him repeatedly with a butter knife when Greenhill eventually fell asleep. He butchered the corpse, ate his fill and carried what he could in a sack across his back. He eventually made it back to civilization and told people who knew him that he had been given a Governors' pardon. Even in those days it didn't take long for people to become suspicious and he was eventually arrested for some minor thieving."

***Snap**

"Unfortunately the judge didn't believe his confession. It was considered madness. Alexander was a proven liar so he assumed that he was simply covering for the others and they were roaming the bush, thieving. It was at the time an actual point of law. Pearce was a proven liar, so his confession could not be accepted. He sent Alexander Pearce back to Sarah Island, a place of such horror he had abused his very soul to escape from it."

Ducky shook his head and moving around the corpse started on the other side of the rib cage, hefting the heavy metal shears once again.

***Snap**

"Can you imagine? All of that darkness, torture and anguish only to end up back where you started from. Except this time it was even worse. He was lauded by the other prisoners as a hero for escaping so the authorities in their wisdom lashed him repeatedly to maintain order and he spent much of his time chained up."

***Snap**

"Did you know that during his time on the island he was lashed over 200 times? More than any man before him. And this was with small pieces of tin worked into the leather to cause the most damage. Unrelenting and unceasing corporal punishment."

***Snap**

Ducky frowned sorrowfully "And this was a man who was originally transported for stealing six pairs of shoes. He became a monster."

***Snap**

Gibbs went to walk away, feeling disturbed by Ducky's story.

"Thanks Duck. Let me know when you're done."

Ducky looked up, almost surprised that Gibbs had actually stayed to hear so much of his story.

"Unfortunately, that is not where the sorry tale ends Gibbs. Do you wish me to continue?'

Gibbs knew that he would have to hear the rest of the story so that he could file it away into the back of his mind under FINISHED rather than have it rear its head in his subconscious at some inappropriate time. Like late at night when the night hours grew chill and the shadows fell sideways across his bedroom floor.

Gibbs paused and nodded, half turning back.

"Alexander escaped the unceasing brutality a second time. He was assisted by a young man but Alexander flew into a rage when he discovered that the young man couldn't swim making their escape from the island impossible. When the troopers discovered him some days later he had parts of the young man with him, along with several days worth of stolen bread and cheese still in his sack."

***Snap**

"This time they had no choice but to believe his tale. He was keep chained to a wall in the dark underneath the gallows and eventually taken and hung. Not hung from a short sharp drop to break his neck, oh no they hung him slowly so he suffocated and twitched and died in slow agony while a crowd watched. "

***Snap**

Gibbs could hear the anger in the other man's voice as he considered the scene.

"In those rather enlightened times some said it was because he was Irish, some said it was because he was Catholic. There were those who said it proved 'bad blood' and that a convict could never be converted from bad deeds while others said he was possessed by the very devil himself.

***Snap**

Ducky cut through the final rib and looked up at Gibbs through his shield with the autopsy lights shining off the plastic.

"I tend to think he was simply a man who was driven to the brink of insanity by mans own brutality. And ultimately you can never judge what hunger will do to a man."

It started off like a normal sort of day. Well as normal as his days had been lately. He visited his therapist, told him he remembered nothing, then he came to work for a few hours, sat at his desk and worked on paper work and cold cases.

Tim felt like he was settling into an awkward sort of routine with the team, but it was a routine. One which was getting stronger and more familiar with each passing day.

They were beginning to trust him again. In turn he was studying them, learning their weaknesses as he had been taught.

If he could just hold out long enough then this new life would replace the occasional vague memories of his old life and perhaps everything would be alright again. He wouldn't have to think about that time in the middle. The times that hurt and burned and screamed. It was like he was a snake struggling to settle into his new skin after shedding the old. It was an analogy he had been considering as he started every day with the exercises and creams to try and stop his scars from restricting his movement, to reduce the violence of their appearance.

It felt strange to not be familiar with his own skin. It was something he had always taken for granted and now he was reminded daily of that luxury as he discovered new lines, new angles like a distorted noughts and crosses game had been carved into his body.

It helped him keep his distance. Even his own skin was foreign. Timothy McGee was a persona. A creation that he maintained. Soon his lessons would prove their worth and his assignment would become clear to him.

He had even laughed today. It was strained, awkward and felt false but it was there. It was in response to something stupid Tony had said, all movie references, waiving arms and innuendo. It was hollow compared to his once joyful boyish laugh and he knew the others noticed but that he had tried resulted in an answering smile from the others. Another step.

He made a note to practice laughing when he was alone so it didn't disturb others.

It was the apple that did it. Something so simple but when he returned from Abby's lab he found it on his desk. He knew everyone had been encouraging him to eat, concern for the weight that he had lost and his continued lack of appetite resulting in almost constant gifts of food. Even Tony seemed to be putting on weight as a result of the constant snacks, not that Tim would tell him that while he himself seemed to hover in a comforting perpetual weakness.

Food was something he could control. He didn't like to think about why he wanted to keep himself weak. His lessons had taught him he should stay healthy and strong at all times.

Controllable said the voice in his head which he ignored

It wasn't even the look of the apple as it was a green Granny Smith and completely different from the one they…..

His mind shed away from thinking about that time. He wasn't allowed to think about that time.

The apple taunted him.

That time when he was so hungry he shook and the taste of the sweet juicy flesh in his mouth nearly made him cry. The salt from the blood in his mouth and the sugary sun drenched liquid warmth of the fruit combined to almost overwhelm him. The dirt and sweat from his hands as he buried his teeth in the tender flesh. The juice as it ran down his rough chin as he…

No.

It wasn't the same.

Forget it.

It is simply an apple on a desk.

Harmless

It was the _smell_, the apple smell that suddenly made him feel queasy. No he would not let it take over. Tim swallowed and sat at his desk breathing deeply but carefully trying not to make the others aware of his distress.

He felt himself break out into a sweat and knew it wasn't going to go away. Not this time. Simply thinking about not being sick merely focused his body on what it was feeling. He took his jacket off and placed it carefully over the back of the chair. Feeling cooler sometimes helped and besides it was starting to feel restricting, grabbing at his shoulders and neck as he moved.

He stood quickly and was aghast to realize how weak he felt as he trembled. He stood still, bracing himself against the side of his desk for a moment waiting for the instant when he could casually walk unnoticed to the men's bathroom. He was not going to wait and hope it would go away and risk throwing up at his desk. Have everyone listen to him retching, have the bull pen full of the smell for the rest of the day. Everyone staring as he lost control over his body.

But planning, thinking about being sick, the distressing smell of the toilets, the men's urinals, kneeling on the cold hard tiles, the harsh white industrial bar lights, the bitter acidic taste of stomach bile made him swallow convulsively as he felt his temperature rise. Tim trembled further and considered how far the toilets were in relation to his desk.

'You ok Bud? Tony queried. He had seen McGee starring at the apple on his desk but had waited until he had seen him actually quiver before drawing his attention. Tony was conscious of himself watching Tim all the time, he couldn't seem to help himself though he knew it hadn't gone unnoticed.

Tim mentally sighed; he should have known he couldn't get anything past Tony.

'I'm fine, just not feeling that well'

He took that time, since everyone was already staring up at him with concerned looks on their faces to head towards the bathroom.

"I'll be back in a minute"

Tony watched as McGee walked quickly past him and headed towards the men's bathroom. It was obvious he was going to throw up, he was as white as a sheet and it was equally obvious that he didn't want anyone as witness to it. Tony decided to give him a few moments privacy as he knew he never liked anyone listening to him hurl and McGee was particularly sensitive about this sort of thing at the best of times.

It was only minutes later that the screaming began.

Tim made it to the bathroom just in time. His mouth was full of extra warm liquid saliva no matter how many times he tried to swallow it down. Soon he was walking so fast he was through the bathroom door in an instant and with a quick glance around he was relieved to find he was alone.

He entered the first cubicle and with shaking hands shut the door, before turning, collapsing and almost instantly throwing up into the toilet. With his hands clenched around the edge of the toilet seat he retched up his misery, his back arching under the violence of it.

He had had so little to eat today there was almost nothing for his stomach to get rid of. But it seemed that his body had a task to complete and he couldn't stop the compulsion to gag again and again, spit and acidic tasting orange stomach bile all he could expel. His back and neck were arched while his stomach muscles screamed at the continued abuse. He had closed his eyes to stop looking at the pitiful results of his exertions and he felt the hot sweat coating his clammy skin.

In a minute it was all over and Tim fell back exhausted, shaking weakly against the door. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Disgusting. All he could smell was sweat, his sweat, and his bitter vomit and still there was that residual apple smell, taunting him.

He knew he didn't have long before someone came in or came looking for him to see if he was all right. He didn't want them to see him like this, not when it had seemed like everything was just starting to fit again. The looks would start up again, the private conversations. With a painful breath Tim slowly got up and unlocked the door, flushing away the evidence before shakily heading to the basins to wash his hands and face.

He stood there a moment; eyes closed just feeling the clean cool water running over his sweaty hands.

_Clean. Like the rain. Like the rain that had washed it all away, that had kept him safe.  
Wet. Wet like the blood that had coated his body.  
Wet like the blood pouring out of their bodies into the rain.  
Wet like the stinking fear sweat that coated his body when he heard them return with the barbed lash.  
Wet like the tears in the eyes of the man that he had killed with his bare hands, his eyes staring up at him._

NO!

Tim gasped and struggled for breath, tremors wracking his thin body and he struggled to control the flood of memories that threatened to overwhelm him. His strength failed him after his recent exertions and he fell, cracking his forehead on the sharp cabinet edge.

Pain.

He shuddered in a collapsed heap in front of the basins, his limbs seeming to abandon any pretence of control. The shining white cold tiles echoed his painful gasps as he brought his wet hands up to his face and pulling them away he could see them covered with blood.

Red blood.

His blood.

No no no no no no no

Tim shook his head wildly as if he could shake the enveloping black thoughts out of his head as they clamored and wailed calling maliciously to him. Drops of blood flew from the long deep cut on his forehead to splatter on the white tiles.

Red.

Control. He must regain control.

Tim frantically wiped his hands down his white shirt trying to clean the blood from his hands but there just seemed to be more of it. He could feel it running hot and fresh down his face. He tried to wipe his forehead clean with both hands and his hands came away covered in more red blood. Pushing his hands onto the white tiles, leaving smeared bloody handprints on the floor and walls he tried to maneuver his uncooperative shaking body up. He grabbed onto the edge of the porcelain basin and held tight.

White.

He needed to see.

He needed to know if He was back.

The man stood shaking in front of the bathroom mirror staring at his reflection. Gone was the neat immaculate controlled Timothy McGee and in his place there was a weak, shaking, dirty sweating man with blood sheeting down his face and staining his clothes.

Could he see the whiskers on his face, the old blood turned black and crumbling, caking his battered face, the grimy hair, the cut swollen lip?

The eyes. Tim forced himself to look at his eyes.

The big green eyes were almost bulging with panic and despair. Tim reached out with a red wet hand and touched the mirror as blood from his face dripped off his chin slowly into the white ceramic basin, joining with the water to swirl down the drain.

NO! You can't come back! He told himself

The man in the mirror grinned with bloodstained teeth

No! I don't want to face it. I can't. This way is better. You don't exist anymore!

LIAR! You ARE me! Came back the answer roaring into his ears

The man stared at the eyes of the Timothy McGee behind the blood stained mirror.

No! Not again.

He turned away from the sight, clawing at his face trying to tear Him away, desperation choking his voice.

Blood.

More blood. He dug his short sharp nails into his face trying to obliterate the image of who he had become.

Pain.

He could feel Him coming. He could taste the vomit and the blood again. He clawed desperately again, his fingernails raking down his cheeks. He succeeded only in tearing open further the gash on his forehead, blood flying in drops from his head and hands.

Red smeared on white.

No!

Tim screamed, dropped his anguished body to his knees and started shaking his head violently to try and free himself of the memories overwhelming him. He crawled shakily on his hands and knees across the acres of hard white tiles. Blood now coated not just the front of his white business shirt but also his trousers from the knees down, a shining wet red trail like some nightmarish snail wavering across the snowy white.

He couldn't keep the memories away. Jarrod had told him he could control them, but there were too many.

The sounds. The harsh echo was like the empty Warehouse. The screaming. Somewhere far off someone was screaming, screaming in pain and terror and in hopelessness.

He was screaming. Over and over.

The smell. The smell of vomit, sweat, urine and despair. Tim could smell his own body, his own blood mixed with the sweat and sour industrial cleaners.

The HUNGER. The overwhelming _hunger_ that drove him mad every waking minute as he wanted with every particle of his body to simply eat something, to ease the all consuming pain that wracked his body.

No! They would not come for him again. They would not make him do THAT again. He would obey their instructions. He wasn't a man. He was simply a tool shaped by a man's hand.

You are Timothy McGee! And you must FIGHT! You must break free!

No! I can't!

It was as he was huddled in the corner of the room his back wedged against the wall that they came for him.

He used the wall as support and pushed himself giddily up. If they would come for him then he would not go easy. That much they had taught him. He lifted His crazed eyes to invite them all into his Hell.

Tony glanced up at Gibbs when he first heard it and then they both bolted for the toilets, Ziva not far behind them. Tony's desk was closer and it gave him a small advantage so it was he who first slammed through the door.

At the scene before him he instinctively grabbed at his empty hip for his gun. The violence of the scene made him think at first that McGee had been attacked. There was blood everywhere, floor, walls, basin, mirror. Dark drops of it, big bright red smears of it, handprints standing out stark against the gleaming white tiles.

And constantly the screaming. So loud! Echoing off the walls a rolling undulation of almost constant terror and pain. Tim, covered in splashes and patches of his own bright blood was braced against the far corner wall screaming endlessly, hopelessly, seemingly without end. When he ran out of breath he simply drew another one and started again. He didn't even seem to realize that he was doing it. There was a large gash on his head that seemed to be the cause of all the blood, strong rivulets of bright red streaming into his eyes and down his face unchecked.

Tony could barely think. The once white bathroom was empty except for the four of them. He turned to Gibbs and Ziva and the three of them turned towards Tim together, a united front.

'Boss, what do we do?' Tony's concerned voice was lost in the wall of anguished sound coming from the corner.

'Ziva, get Ducky! Now!' Ziva with a quick look over her shoulder bolted for the door.

Tim lifted his head and it was then that Tony knew that Tim was not seeing them but seeing something from when he was held captive. His eyes, always expressive now held such rage, such terror that Tony hesitated.

Gibbs starred at his agent, his team mate and friend then stepped softly towards McGee making soothing sounds almost as if he were a frightened child.

Tim simply tensed further and began to back up the wall slowly. Tony realized that the screaming was possibly the most energetic thing he had seen McGee do since his return to duty. In comparison to the energy and violence of his screaming McGee's day to day actions now seemed languid in comparison.

'Gibbs' Tony voiced warned him as he watched McGee eyes narrow and assess, his fists clench and he spread his feet to get better balance as for the first time he stood up free from the wall. The screaming changed tone and pitch to sound more like snarling, sounding even more frightening when coming from the ragged throat of a friend.

Suddenly Ziva, Ducky and Abby burst in and Tim thumped back against the wall.

Abby was speechless, shocked and took a step back to stand behind Ducky and Ziva.

Tim, eyes still staring, voice still raging took a step towards them braced for a fight when suddenly it all became too much. Tony watched as he trembled exhausted, his eyes rolled up into his head and he seemed to collapse in slow motion.

'Catch him!'

Tony didn't need Gibbs's shout to call him to action and he had already leapt forward to brace McGee's head against the fall. Tony, Gibbs and McGee ended up in a tangled pile together on the floor.

'Good lord Jethro, what the hell happened? I only saw him this morning and he was fine' Ducky was at Tim's side in an instant checking his vitals.

'I don't know Duck. But I think we need to get him some help.'

Gibbs didn't voice whether that help should be directed at McGee's physical or mental state and no one answered the unspoken question.

'Right well let's see if we can get him to the hospital, that gash looks nasty. Cuts to the face do tend to bleed rather profusely and I don't think young Timothy needs another scar to deal with at this stage. Can you and Tony carry him?'

Gibbs untangled himself and along with Tony bent down to lift McGee up. Gibbs braced himself to lift up the younger more solidly built agent and was surprised at how light he was. He lifted his eyes in surprise and met Tony's gaze directly across from him. Tim felt like nothing more than an awkward bundle of sticks. Gibbs realized now why Tim had been wearing not just his jacket but his trench coat inside while at work. It had rather effectively bulked him up and hid how much weight he had really lost. It seemed that far from being ok McGee had been hiding an awful of things from them.

Abby watched, her green eyes wide as Gibbs and Tony carried Tim out. Her voice was small.

"I don't understand what happened. He was just down in the lab with me. It couldn't have been ten minutes ago. I mean like ten minutes! He was fine, we were talking about the case and he came up here and…. and… it looks like he was attacked!"

Ziva stepped up to her and silently gave her a hug and they embraced tightly in the middle of the blood red and gleaming white men's bathroom.

Abby sniffed and wiped away a tear.

"'Thanks Ziva. We should go. See if Tim's come round or …or… I should go to the hospital with him. He will be frightened if he wakes up there alone…. again."

They turned and hurried out, Tim's screams still seeming to echo from the gleaming white walls.

_Later that night_

Tony stripped off his clothes and stood naked in front of his bathroom mirror. He felt dirty and sweaty. He hated hospitals. He ran the hot water into the basin and foamed up his face. He was going to give himself a shave and then have a nice soothing shower. He ran the razor with its scraping sound down his cheek, his mind whirling on this afternoon.

McGee had seemed ok not well, not like he had used to be but it seemed like he was getting it together. Now? He was back in the hospital, his gash tended to but they also seemed concerned about his fluids, he was too dehydrated and they had him on some glucose mix. He hadn't wanted to meet Tony's eyes when he had gone to see him, but he had been almost too weak to be embarrassed. McGee had fallen asleep a few minutes after they came in to visit him and the nurses had hustled them all out.

Tony flinched as he nicked himself on the sharp razor edge. He watched as a drop of blood evaporated into the warm water as he rinsed his blade. He flashed back to seeing McGee for the first time in the bathroom, only minutes after speaking to him at his desk.

His shock seemed to be only just wearing off at the sudden transformation of his friend. If he closed his eyes tight he could still see the red silhouette of McGee backed against the corner, the brilliant white tiles all around him etched onto his eyelids.

Gibbs had asked him at the hospital if he had noticed what it might have been that set him off. Tony could only answer that McGee had been staring at the apple on his desk and had been fine minutes before. Gibbs had only nodded at this strange tid bit and disappeared to talk to Ducky.

Tony swirled the water around in his fingers, feeling his throat constrict painfully as he thought of his friend. McGee hadn't talked about what had happened to him and now Tony could see why. How could you express in simple words the terror and pain he had felt simply listening to Tim screaming?

Tony's eyes welled up with hot wet tears and he didn't fight them this time. He put down his razor and sobbed painfully, quietly knowing that his friend was still far of Form

(Pretty massive chapter. So what do you think. Review?)


	9. Chapter 9

(Well after a long wait I am submitting this. Hopefully it works for you and I will try to continue on my stumbling way with it.)

"Let me ask you a question Agent Gibbs? Do you think he is at any sort of risk of hurting himself or others?"

The Doctor waited quietly in anticipation while Gibbs considered what he knew of the young man who had collapsed in the men's bathroom earlier that day.

His first thought was that no of course Timothy McGee wasn't a threat to anyone but something had changed during his time in captivity. The man screaming in fury and bracing himself to fight those he had once considered friends bore little resemblance to the quiet, sweet computer specialist who had been a member of his team.

But then again they had barely scratched the surface of what had actually been done to him so how could he pass judgment? McGee had survived. That's all that had mattered in the beginning.

It looked like now the hard yards were to begin.

"I would like to speak with him Doc"

*************************************************************************

Timothy McGee stared blankly up at the man he had once thought of as his Boss as Gibbs sat beside his bed. The room was silent but for the argument of opinions going on in Tim's head.

The silence stretched out until even Gibbs grew uncomfortable.

"Want to tell me what's going on McGee?"

Gibbs was straight to the point and Tim shifted his gaze to look him directly in the eyes.

Blue. Like the ball that was green.

Tim blinked as he considered what he should say. How on earth could he explain that for the last few months he had been like a computer program simply waiting for the final destruct command? A search engine gathering information on its environment without really understanding it use?

His body had been healing but his mind had effectively side stepped the entire issue. And if that was what he had had been then just what the hell was he now? Who was he now? Could you confront yourself in a psychotic episode? Was he even sure that it was Timothy McGee who won his sanity in the end?

Tim took a deep breath and tried to ignore the voice he heard in his head as he tried to work out what he should say to explain what he didn't understand himself.

You must always watch the eyes of your opposition in order to be able to assess any threat.

Gibbs was definitely a threat to him, even if Gibbs didn't know it right now as he sat silently beside him, offering him support. Tim knew with a deep certainty that Gibbs would be the one to end him completely, in a way Jarrod with his Machiavellian plans never had.

So simple logic dictated that he should kill him.

Not now when it was obvious but later when he could slip down into the basement of Gibbs' unlocked house, a warm smile on his face and gloves on his hands.

That would make sure that Gibbs wasn't the one to know the truth.

But didn't part of him yearn for his own final breath? To desire death and to succumb to peaceful endless nothingness? The part of him that had welcomed the flames and the rain on that awful night when he took his fate into his own hands only to be disappointed again?  
What was left of Timothy McGee should have died that day. It would have been better for all concerned.

Perhaps he should kill himself and be done with it? Here in the hospital provided plenty of opportunity. Then he wouldn't have to remember those who died in his arms. Those that died because of him. Those that died from his hands.

Tim groaned as his head ached with possibilities.

Once Gibbs had been a good friend. He would be hurt by his failure to save Tim. Gibbs had already suffered enough for a good man.  
Why was he thinking about killing Gibbs one minute and then worrying about hurting his feelings the next?

What was _**wrong**_ with him?

Tim was tired and confused and he felt like he could argue all sides of any agreement his mind presented him with. The Truth had dissolved like flesh into a vat of dry cleaning fluids and the banal everyday had warped into a Salvador Dali painting.

Dropping his aching head into his hands Tim rocked like a small child as he searched for a pathway out of his own turbulent questionable sanity.

Once a long time ago a part of him had trusted this silver haired man deeply. If he couldn't trust himself now then perhaps he just had to trust himself as he had been?

Tim finally lifted his head and shrugged in answer to Gibbs question. Where did he start?

Gibbs tried for something specific as he saw the deep confusion in his Agents eyes.

"Why haven't you been eating McGee?"

"I wanted to keep myself weak Gibbs"

Tim was honest and waited for the next question. Question, answer. That was something he could do. He was a good student. Always had been. It was Gibbs's problem what to do with the answer.

Gibbs was surprised and took an instant to digest the answer.

"Why did you want to keep yourself weak Tim?"

"Because I didn't want to hurt anyone"

Again Gibbs sat in silence for a moment

"Do you think you could hurt someone Tim?" Gibbs asked quietly

"I have in the past Gibbs" Tim simply looked at him and Gibbs frowned. It was true that at times McGee's position as a field agent had called for violence but he wasn't sure if that was what McGee was referring to.

Gibbs decided to try a new line of questioning.

"Did you remember something about the time you were held captive? Is that what happened in the men's room?"

Tim flinched and his eyes started to dart around the sparse room as he thought back to the white tiled room splashed in his own bright red blood.

Gibbs instinctively wanted to give McGee some space as his breathing became erratic but they had given McGee plenty of space to heal since he had been found. His injuries had initially limited physical contact and they had all been hesitant to cause him further pain and awkwardness by pushing themselves onto him. Perhaps they had given him too much space? Tim had apparently been slowly drowning in front of them all this time. He needed to know he didn't have to do this on his own anymore.

Gibbs instead leaned forward and heard Tim's breathing grow ragged and desperate, his fists curling into the hospital sheets as his eyes tried to find an escape from the room he was trapped in.

_Pain. Lies. Desperate hazel eyes. A man's life reduced to some words on a piece of paper. Burning flesh, screaming…._

"It's ok McGee. It's ok to remember. That just means it is in the past. I know it's painful but it gets better. Feel it, grieve for it and then let it go. It's ok to cry"

Tim looked up a Gibbs with dry hard eyes and Gibbs felt uncertain.

"You don't understand at all"

"Then help me understand Tim"

"I can't feel anything anymore."

"What do you mean Tim?" Gibbs was gentle but persistent

"I mean I don't feel anything. I'm numb. Pain to me is simply ….information. I am not happy or sad. I recognize hot or cold because I know it effects how fast I can run not because I like it warmer or cooler.. I have no empathy towards others because I cannot feel anymore. Everything is changed.  
You are Gibbs because that's what the shapes you make up are to me. You're almost not a person anymore. You're just an object like that table over there. I can't cry because I can't feel anything."

Gibbs frowned and after a minute dropped his head.

"You think I'm a table? I don't think I fully understand what you mean McGee."

Tim smiled sadly

"I know you don't Gibbs.

Gibbs wondered about how many times he and McGee had stood on the opposite side of the information divide when dealing with computers and part of him yearned to just be able to smack Tim on the back of the head and have him smile sheepishly at him again.

"What else can you tell me McGee?"

"His name was Jarrod."

"You remember?"  
Tim just nodded and didn't bother to explain that he had always remembered Jarrod. How could he forget?

"I will tell you everything about him. "

"Good. I want to make sure he never does this again. Do you know what he wanted from you?"

"He wanted to turn me into a tool that he could use. "

"Use for what?" Gibbs tried to smoother his deep anger at the idea of one of his people being used and allow Tim to continue with his strange halting answers.

"Whatever he wanted. I wasn't the only one. There were others before me. The methods had been perfected already. He considered me his favorite. He chose me from a short list. He…..He deconstructed me. Took away who I was and left only what he could use."

"What did he take away Tim?"

"Everything" Tim whispered, his eyes wide "there's almost nothing left"

Gibbs squeezed his young agent hand and blinked to ease his aching eyes before he continued.

"Will you get help Tim? I mean are you willing to really try and get yourself better instead of just telling the doctors what they need to hear? Start eating again?"

Tim cocked his head and stared over Gibbs shoulder at something in middle distance.

"I owe him that much.."

"Owe who Tim?"

Tim shifted his glance back to Gibbs face again

"I won't hurt you Gibbs. I want you know that. I will get help. I want to come back to the team. The memories of the team are almost all I have left of me."

*******************************************************************

Gibbs felt deeply unsettled as he stepped into the elevator. The strange conversation had continued on for over an hour although there were times when Gibbs couldn't shake the feeling he was talking to someone else rather than to McGee.

But what worried him most was not the glimpse into how damaged Timothy McGee really was but that Tim had lied to him.

Gibbs just didn't know what about.  
_  
I won't hurt you Gibbs…_


End file.
